


Nonverbal Cues

by e_lucy_date



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, One Shot, Rating: NC17, bit of angst, nonverbal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_lucy_date/pseuds/e_lucy_date
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been months since the incidents of The Great Game and a long time coming when Sherlock appears in John's bedroom one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nonverbal Cues

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing nor am I making a profit from this. This iteration of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC, et al.
> 
> Spoilers: Assumed knowledge of all of series 1, specific reference to the end of TGG. Written before Series 2.

John glances at his alarm clock and sighs, reaching down and yanking the cord from its socket. He doesn’t want red digital numbers staring back at him and furthermore, doesn’t need a machine to tell him what he can already feel: it is late, after two in the morning, and so dark in his room that he can barely see his bedside table. Dim light crawls up the staircase and the faint clinking of glassware confirms that Sherlock is still playing chemist.

Stretched out on his back, John hears the noises downstairs stop. He doesn’t have nightmares much anymore, but still suffers bouts of insomnia and has nearly memorised the sounds of 221B. Perhaps Sherlock is done for the night, but it is more likely he is waiting on a solution to boil or is lost in thought, fingers steepled, running through all the derivative poisons that can be made from household products. Minutes pass, could be longer, John has no idea and doesn’t much care; he thinks back to a study he participated in at University where he was asked to sit in a bare room with no clock and to get up and leave whenever he felt ten minutes had passed. He stayed for eighteen minutes twelve seconds.

John hears a stool scrape against the floor and quiet, almost inaudible shuffling as Sherlock turns off the light and leaves the kitchen. This portion John knows well: a few more steps to Sherlock’s room, then the door will invariably groan on its hinges before he presses it firmly into its frame. The footsteps don’t stop, however, and John realizes that Sherlock is in fact walking up the stairs, carefully, slowly, purposefully avoiding the creaky fifth stair even in total darkness, winding his way up until he is poised directly at the entrance to John’s room.

Through the blackness John can make out Sherlock’s lean frame and wonders how he knows John isn’t asleep. He’s become accustomed to frantically working backwards from Holmesian conclusions and thinks, _I must typically make noise, I probably snore_. Perhaps Sherlock doesn’t know, though, maybe he is simply going on conjecture, and John shifts his weight on the bed and softly clears his throat to let Sherlock know he’s conscious.

Sherlock understands and passes the threshold into the room as John’s pulse spikes. John sits up in bed, moving a few inches away from the edge, allowing Sherlock space to sit down and he does, cautiously, his added weight on the mattress so gradual John wouldn’t even be sure he was there were it not for Sherlock’s breathing and the faint smell of burnt sugar lingering from the remains of whatever is no doubt coagulating in a beaker downstairs.

Sherlock reaches out, hand trailing up the edge of the mattress until he finds John’s arm, his fingertips making a delicate pilgrimage to the doctor’s elbow and coming back down to his wrist before his entire palm glances up the length of John’s arm, past his shoulder, and delicately cups his neck. John is sure Sherlock is gauging his heartbeat, fingers on his carotid, thumb grazing his jaw.

John sensed this moment was coming, ever since that night in the taxi a few weeks ago, though to be honest at the time he had no ulterior motives or much hope that anything would develop. He’s been keenly aware of how small displays of affection have increased between them, remaining cautious and letting Sherlock set the pace and parameters of contact but it hadn’t evolved into anything overtly romantic, not yet, not until now.

John feels Sherlock’s breath against his cheek, can vaguely make out his ridiculous curls in the darkness and thinks of Victorian silhouettes before leaning forward, finding Sherlock’s lips with his own, pressing into them slightly, asking permission and getting it as Sherlock returns the sentiment, moving his hand to the back of John’s head, parting his lips, exploring his mouth. John opens up to him, deepening the kiss, relishing the way Sherlock’s lower lip feels between his teeth with a gentle tug, while a humming, electric sensation builds in his chest. He’s terrified and elated and losing his breath with each moment he’s fused to Sherlock; he’s never anticipated or wanted anything this badly in his life.

He threads his fingers in Sherlock’s hair before trailing them down the detective’s elegant neck and feeling his chest through his shirt, the expensive suit shirt he was wearing while experimenting despite countless others he has ruined with chemical burns. One button already undone, John flicks open another, moving his mouth down Sherlock’s jaw and neck, alternating kisses and bites and Sherlock moans, largely unintelligible and an octave lower than normal and the electricity buzzing in John’s chest shoots to his cock.

Their positioning is no longer suitable: with a huff that could well be Sherlock muttering _wrong_ , he adjusts his position, straddling John’s lap and allowing John better access and ability to continue disrobing him. John wastes no time working button after button and immediately captures each bit of exposed flesh with his mouth as Sherlock presses himself closer, arching his back, hips making satisfying contact against John’s.

John can feel Sherlock’s growing erection rub against his own now, defiantly hard and pressing against his designer trousers, and with the last button conquered John pushes the obtrusive fabric back and off Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock rocks against him again, a bit harder but without a sense of urgency, simply relishing the sensation. John’s hands return to Sherlock, feeling the muscles in his back tense and flex as he leans down, cups John’s face in his hands, and kisses him again, deep and messy. John’s hands continue down the length of Sherlock’s back, around the outsides of his thighs before coming back up and firmly grabbing Sherlock’s arse and this time he has no idea who is doing the moaning.

Sherlock breaks the kiss, pulling away a few centimetres that feel as expansive as continents, and John, needing desperately to keep kissing him, turns his head into Sherlock’s palm, mouth on the pad of skin by his thumb, then on his fingertips. John can taste the faintest trace of cigarettes; the night they returned from the incident at the pool Sherlock marched into his room and returned with his reserve pack and sat on the stoop chain smoking well into the morning. Patches haven’t satisfied him since.

Sherlock rubs John’s cheek softly before both his hands go for the hem of John’s sleep shirt and lift it up and clean over his head and it lands somewhere on the floor. Sherlock doesn’t move for a moment, and panic dances at the back of John’s mind. Will he stop? Did he just make a mental breakthrough on a case? Can he possibly be making deductions right now?

There’s an audible hitch in Sherlock’s breathing, a long exhale, and he slowly presses his hands to John’s abdomen, feeling the solid strength there. Sherlock shivers, slightly, John feels the ripple as Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, his breathing still unmeasured. John pulls in a deep breath, aware of his own desire pulsing against Sherlock’s while he rubs reassuring circles into Sherlock’s back. John shifts slightly so that he is now cheek to cheek with Sherlock, wanting to whisper something in his ear but can’t find the words, can only keep holding him in this embrace for a moment that could very well last until dawn and then, more magnificent than the sunrise, he feels Sherlock’s mouth pull into a true grin, and John himself smiles because of course Sherlock is choosing this moment in the dark to emote.

That’s all it takes to shatter the suspended pause, their lips collide again and John’s hands once more cup Sherlock’s arse and lift, flipping them over so that Sherlock’s back hits the mattress to a chorus of squeaky springs and John insinuates himself between Sherlock’s thighs with a lascivious thrust. John’s mouth trails downwards as Sherlock ruts against John, the noises coming from him a blend of purring and pleading as John makes it to his belt, removes it, and unzips him.

Sherlock writhes, one hand grabbing a fistful of sheets and the other covering his eyes as he rolls his hips up, seeking contact. John finds this adorable, and catalogs it away as another detail for his personal collection that he would never dare post in his blog, along with the fact that Sherlock loves Miss Marple stories and dreadfully sweet, artificially-flavoured watermelon hard candies.

John tugs Sherlock’s trousers off, running his hands up his legs and planting a kiss on the inside of both of Sherlock’s thighs before firmly grasping the base of Sherlock’s cock and guiding it to his mouth, lapping a lazy circle round the head and if possible Sherlock spreads his legs even farther apart and lets out a deliciously broken moan.

It has been months since Moriarty bested them at the pool. Sherlock’s aim was steady and John’s eye was on the trigger as he tensed and threw himself forward just as the gun fired, knocking them both into the water. John opened his eyes against the sting of the chlorine, saw no flames above or debris in the water with them, pushed up to the surface to see the bomb jacket lying lamely in the corner, Moriarty obviously gone, sniper lasers vanished, the only noise coming from him and Sherlock treading in the pool.

John slapped the water and swore, made it to the edge of the pool and slammed his fist against the concrete, certain of the bruise that would form from the impact. Of course the bomb was a fake. They had fallen into Moriarty’s trap twice, like fools, acted just as he predicted. Not only did the bastard know John was willing to sacrifice himself to save Sherlock, he knew that both of them were ready to face certain death if it meant stopping him. And Moriarty would certainly exploit that weakness next time.

For now, though, John’s not sure he cares, certain he doesn’t want to think any farther into the future than now, right now, the feel of Sherlock’s pulsing cock in his mouth as he hums around it, building rhythm as he bobs his head and pumps his fist. Sherlock’s hips rock erratically, increasing the friction and trying not to be too forceful as he moves a hand down to grasp the back of John’s skull.

John continues stroking with his hand and licks a long stripe up and down the underside of Sherlock’s length, lapping and sucking at his balls as a string of profanities uncurls from Sherlock’s mouth and hangs in the air, quickly replaced by soft grunts as John takes him back in, increasing suction and pace.

It’s wonderful, really, eliciting these sounds from Sherlock and feeling him respond, offering himself to John, completely exposed, utterly vulnerable. He stutters John’s name and the sound reverberates down, settling in John’s groin, stoking the already nearly intolerable fire there. John feels Sherlock’s body twitch, subtlety tighten, and he wants Sherlock to come, wants to swallow every bit of him, but just when he’s sure it’ll happen Sherlock tugs at his head, a gesture asking him to stop and inviting him back up.

John complies, gliding up Sherlock’s body with restraint until they are face to face, hip to hip, and John’s thin pyjama bottoms, damp with his own precome, remain the last pesky barrier between them. Sherlock tilts his head, mashing his lips against John’s, all earlier delicacy vanished, replaced with raw need and hunger as he tugs the offending material down, freeing John’s swollen cock and firmly grasping it.

Their kiss is broken by John’s ragged gasp at the sensation of finally being touched by Sherlock. He buries his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, biting down as Sherlock rocks up into him and moves his hand. John’s oversensitive, despite the fact that he’s barely been touched, and a few more thrusts like this into Sherlock’s fist will be the end of him. Sherlock must sense it, too, because he steadies himself and pulls John back for another kiss, slower, softer, sighing into his mouth and John’s not sure how he does it but Sherlock manages to freeze time, they’re in limbo again, fighting to retain some small sense of control to prevent them both from hurtling off this cliff together too soon.

Slowly, glacially, Sherlock resumes pumping John’s cock, and John mumbles into the pillow until Sherlock’s other hand cups his face, guiding him up so that Sherlock can look at him, even in this dimness. John fights the impulse to close his eyes as pleasure builds and stares back, feeling his entire body blush both at the sensation and the scrutiny. The next thing he knows, Sherlock is pressing his forefinger against John’s lips and John greedily takes him in, sucking in rhythm with Sherlock’s fist, never breaking eye contact.

Sherlock removes his finger with a wet pop, winds a leg around the back of John’s thigh, nudging him even closer and runs his saliva-coated finger down the cleft of John’s arse. He circles the puckered entrance and John presses back, moaning loudly as Sherlock’s finger gradually slips inside, stretching, exploring. John surrenders himself to being very much at the will of his flatmate’s very capable hands, smug with the knowledge that he’ll never look at those long fingers the same way again.

John wants more, wants all of Sherlock, and though it physically pains him to do so, he runs his hands up Sherock’s chest for a bracing grip of his shoulders and slowly lifts himself off. He untangles himself from Sherlock’s legs, cock bouncing up to his stomach in sudden freedom, and digs into the bedside table for lube. Sherlock sits up beside him as John finds the precious bottle, and for a split second they are once again face-to-face before John very deliberately lies back, places his legs on either side of Sherlock’s body, and proffers him the lube.

Sherlock grabs it immediately, moves forward while tugging at John’s hips to pull him closer; John’s breath is so shallow and ragged he’s not quite sure how he’s not hyperventilating. Of course it would be like this, he thinks, at least for the first time, spread beneath Sherlock and stripped of all pretense, letting him in, letting him be. John is burning with a slow ache to be touched, to be utterly consumed when Sherlock looks down at the lube, contemplates something with a brief tick of his head, then tosses it on the mattress beside them.

Before John can ask why, Sherlock lowers himself on John, their cocks rubbing together and John is ready to grab them both and thrust and pump until they are absolutely coated in semen when Sherlock gently, sweetly, presses his lips to the scar tissue on John’s shoulder. John exhales the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, struck suddenly still, as Sherlock keeps kissing it, placing peck after peck to the area. As quickly as he decided to lean down, Sherlock straightens back up, grabbing a pillow and placing it under John’s hips, finds the lube, and purposely props John’s right leg on his shoulder.

Sherlock snaps open the lube with one hand and slicks his fingers, positioning himself even closer to John, dabbing at his entrance. Sherlock turns his head, kisses John’s ankle as he slips a finger inside and John begs, loudly, unabashedly, for more. Sherlock complies, fitting a second finger in as he leans forward until his mouth can now reach John’s knee. John’s begging has deteriorated into swearing, chains of the foulest language he heard in the military as Sherlock kisses, then licks the inside and underside of John’s formerly bad knee while nudging his prostate.

John hasn’t been with anyone since being invalided home, not completely, and having Sherlock open him up while doting on his past injuries is nearly too much, too intimate. John grips the sheets as Sherlock is now up to three fingers and thrusts down, fucking himself on Sherlock’s hand, whispering Sherlock’s name. John has flashes of the way Sherlock kept looking at him at the pool, taking his eyes away from Moriarty. _Will caring about them help save them? –Nope. Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake_ but there it was, plain and simple, Moriarty had engineered it just so: Sherlock displayed true, honest affection for his flatmate, his colleague, his friend.

John is wet and ready and nearly beside himself as Sherlock carefully lines the tip of his own aching, dripping cock against John’s hole and eases in, the head barely inside before he growls that John is the most fucking perfect thing in the entire goddamn universe.

And we know how little you care about the sun, John thinks, grinning, or maybe he says it aloud, his mind growing increasingly fuzzy as he pushes against Sherlock, both of them taking an excruciatingly long time adjusting to each other. John moves his leg from Sherlock’s shoulder to wrap it around his hips, changing the angle, allowing Sherlock to go deeper which he does until he is buried to the hilt. John grasps the headboard to brace himself as Sherlock nearly withdraws and plunges in again, a little bit faster.

Sherlock leans forward, one hand on the bed next to John, the other closing around John’s beautiful, thick cock, moving in rhythm and John covers it with his own, managing the pace together. Tension pools deep within John as he simultaneously longs to come but fights it, wanting teeter on this precipice as long as possible, remain blissfully on edge until the earth finally implodes on itself.

Perhaps that moment is not far away—isn’t the universe shrinking?—for John is close, dangerously close, feeling Sherlock in him, on top of him, and fights back the absurd impulse to laugh because this is certainly, definitely, never ever going in his blog no matter how much he wants to tell the world he shagged Sherlock bloody Holmes, but if he did the entry would have to start somewhere and it would be the taxi.

That taxi ride home after solving a grisly triple homicide, as typical as any other, both of them on opposite sides of the seat staring out the windows. John thought about the worst sandstorm he endured in Afghanistan, the abandoned six-year-old girl they found in a rank heroin den during an old case, the civilian life he had rejected so long ago as a group of blokes stumbled out of a pub, and how going home to clutter and toxic experiments was actually a comfort, and felt enormously grateful that the snipers at the pool never got a chance to turn the left side of Sherlock’s skull into a gaping exit wound, so he kept his eyes on the street and reached across the backseat and placed his hand over Sherlock’s. And to his surprise, after a beat, Sherlock rotated his hand so that it properly cupped John’s and their fingers interlaced.

Now, Sherlock’s hand covers John’s on the headboard, his thrusts growing more erratic, more forceful as he adjusts himself until he is hitting John’s prostrate with every snap of his hips and it takes only a few more strokes before John is coming, semen erupting onto his stomach and all over their combined grip on his cock. He realises he has been chanting Sherlock’s name as aftershocks continue to wrack his body and moments later, as close and as deep as anyone will ever be, Sherlock unravels inside John with a long, ragged groan.

It is seconds or eons until Sherlock pulls out but jarringly, instantly thereafter that his weight is on the edge of the mattress and without thinking John reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s wrist, asking _please stay_ or demanding _don’t go_ , he’s not sure which, but Sherlock shrugs out of his grasp and a moment later the bed adjusts to his absence and John feels like an eviscerated corpse at St. Bart’s.

But then the mattress dips and Sherlock is back, John’s previously discarded sleep shirt in hand, using it to tenderly wipe down John’s stomach and clean them before pitching it to the floor once again. Sherlock moves in close, rests his head in the crook of John’s shoulder and drapes an arm across John’s chest, making it clear he has no intention of leaving. John presses his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head and they stay like this for several minutes, maybe longer, possibly forever.


End file.
